


where do the lost go (when they are found)

by coppertears



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, businessman!Kris, dark themes, implied suicide, pianist!Baekhyun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7228441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coppertears/pseuds/coppertears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they have thirty days to decide which one deserves to live again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
**where do the lost go (when they are found)**  
kris/baekhyun  
rating: pg-13  
w: swearing, dark themes  
they have thirty days to choose which one deserves to live again.

 

kris meets baekhyun on his way to a car crash.

his eyes are half-closed and his hands are slipping, and all at once it seems like the world is crumbling to ashes right in front of him. he can't seem to find any coherent thoughts left in his brain -- all he knows is that his foot's on the gas and there's a car in the same lane, and outside there's only the sun watching him lose control. he's trapped in slow motion and disbelief, his car just racing on and on and on, and the shreds of logic he has left remind him that he's supposed to hit the brakes.

he doesn't. instead he blunders on at 120 kph, heart teetering on the edges of trepidation, and when he plows straight into the other car, kris is just numb. he's numb and he's aching, and there is guilt crawling up his spine, and kris is aware of a vague sense of pain. and when he sees the blood carving a path down the other driver's cheek, everything hits him full force. there are shouts. the static of the radio trickles down to silence. kris is struggling against his seat belt, not fully realizing that his body's broken and it's not responding to his brain's commands. his sight flashes black then blue then a wretched kind of white that bleeds into his consciousness and blinds him.

this is when he sees a guy with milky skin and a small build, peering up at him with sweet brown eyes. kris feels a surge of shame, all of a sudden. there is so much purity buried in the depths of the guy's irises, and he's looking at kris with something close to curiosity, and all kris can think of is that he's probably killed himself along with another guy. all because he insisted on driving himself instead of going with tao.

"my name's baekhyun," the guy says. his smile is honey dripping down soft lips. "why did you kill me?"

somehow kris realizes that he's not in his car anymore. he's suspended in empty space, and in the vast oblivion that surrounds him, there is no one else around except for baekhyun. silence drills into him like it's trying to eke out remorse, and when kris looks at the angelic face of the shorter guy he can only see blame.

he doesn't know what to say. words get stuck in his chest and he's not sure how to convey the guilt that's rushing through his veins. what is the use of saying sorry, after all? an apology won't bring him and baekhyun back down to earth. they're stuck here in what can only be the in-between, the strip of afterlife that separates heaven and hell.

kris knows where he's going. he can feel the flames already licking his feet, seeping into his nerves and consuming him whole. baekhyun, on the other hand, looks like he's headed for the halo, his entire aura innocent and good and unassuming. and kris can't believe it -- he can't believe that he's done this, that he's capable of doing this. years of following the rules are going down the drain, and his conscience is a battering ram against his skull, plaguing him with echoes of _why why why_.

kris doesn't know why. he doesn't know how he's made a mistake that's cost his and baekhyun’s lives. "i don't know," he manages to say, his voice dry and cracked. baekhyun is a statue, a life torn away long before it can truly run its course, and kris doesn't know how to change that. "i don't know." the tears come quick, falling out of his eyes before kris has his first taste of something salty.

he and baekhyun look at each other, the sinner and the victim, and it's almost surprising how nothing comes along to disturb them. there they are, two figures caught up in the embrace of death. something flickers in baekhyun's eyes -- a tiny spark, a burst of life that fades away in seconds.

"do you know where we are?" his voice is softer this time, less heavy with unspoken accusations. he spins in a circle. "it's so, so white. is this heaven?" he glances at kris, still sweet, still a bud plucked before it can bloom.

kris can't find air. but then he's dead -- what does he need breathing for? inhales and exhales work only when you have a beating heart, and kris is sure that despite attempts to resuscitate him, his heart's stopped working. he brushes away the tears still straggling in the corners of his eyes. "maybe," he says. "maybe it is."

baekhyun tilts his head to the side. "that's funny," he says with a small pout. "i thought heaven would have more clouds."

kris shakes his head. "i thought i wouldn't be going to heaven at all," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"but why?" baekhyun asks. "everyone wants to go to heaven."

the laughter that erupts from kris' mouth is explosive and half-filled with self-disgust, and shock is painted on baekhyun's face once he hears it. "i killed you, didn't i?" kris says, his tone mocking. "i killed you. i killed myself."  
  
it's as if he's somehow challenging baekhyun to contest that -- to protest, to turn around the tables, to fall all over himself as he tries to make kris believe that what he's saying is not true.

baekhyun bites his lower lip, shadows consuming his eyes and keeping his emotions hidden. "i didn't really mean it like that," he whispers, avoiding kris' steely gaze. his hands fumble and trip and twist, and he plays with the hem of his shirt.

his shirt is navy blue, and the first thing that kris notices is that there are no blood stains on it. it's clean and ironed and devoid of wrinkles, and the graphic design is a pristine jet black. he looks down at his own clothes -- there is not a single hint of red on his white long-sleeved shirt and black slacks. for some reason, he doesn't know if he feels relieved about not having to see signs of wasted life on his clothes.

"but it's true," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "it's true and we both know it. you asked me why i killed you, didn't you? the moment our eyes met, that was the first thing you said. no matter what, i can't change that fact." he steps closer to baekhyun, and he sees the shorter boy's lips tremble as he tries to fight against the instinct to step back. "what sucks is that i knew i could have avoided it if i hadn't insisted on driving myself home."

baekhyun looks away. kris wonders if he feels so disgusted that he can't even bear to see the face of a criminal right in front of him. "it's not that. i'm sorry. i wasn't...it wasn't your fault. it was also mine. i should have done something, i should have..."

as he looks down at the boy struggling to come up with something conciliatory, kris remembers the first time he'd gotten his car. he remembers seeing it in the shop window, body sleek and painted a harmless off-white. he remembers entering the shop and testing it out, opening the doors and stroking the wheel as the dealer recited his spiel. kris can still recall the crisp scent of new leather, and the way the gas felt as he pushed it down. he bought it right then and there.

now he wonders what it looks like --if it's a crumpled death trap now, or if it's become ashes and oxygen and trace elements in the air. he thinks of tao's worried face, the younger boy's tone carrying an undercurrent of concern as he said, "are you sure you'll be alright, ge?" now, kris knows, he's definitely not _alright_. he's nowhere near _alright_. he's on a train wreck to damnation that's lost its brakes, and there's no way he can get off it now.

"you don't have to explain," he says, and baekhyun's head snaps back up. "what's happened has happened. whether or not it's my fault won't change the fact that we're here now."

baekhyun blinks up at him. then he lets out a sigh, one that contains the nuances of regret. "you're right," he says. "we don't even know where we are. we don't know what we're allowed to do in this place. aren't there supposed to be gates?" his attempt at a light-hearted conversation falls a little flat when kris sees the dullness coating baekhyun's eyes.

kris just feels tired. he feels like his body's been stretched to the point of breaking, that he's now just a soul seeking justice for his own deeds. "let's just go to sleep," he says. "there's not much else we can do."

"sleep? but we're dead now," baekhyun says, eyebrows knitted together. "i don't think we need sleep. this is the afterlife, right? if that's true, then we don't need anything because we don't have the same urges as a living person. come on. why don't we explore this place instead? let's make the most of it."

"what do we explore?" kris can almost untangle the sarcasm precipitating in his tone. "it's all just white."

baekhyun tugs on his sleeve with an urgency that's hard to define. "you never know," he says.

kris lets himself be dragged through the entire space. but the white is endless, unbroken, and soon there is no palpable difference between north and east and west and south, and wherever they turn there’s only the same damned color looking back at them. he’s given up but baekhyun hasn’t, determination etched so clearly on the lines of his face.

“there’s really nothing,” kris says. he wants to sit down. he wants to mourn. he wants to drown in his emotions until he’s head under and deep, waves of thoughts crashing straight into him.

“shush.” baekhyun stops and squints at something in the distance. kris looks down at his feet. and then baekhyun’s let go of the sleeve of his shirt and he’s running, fast and graceful and enthusiastic all at the same time. “come here!” he yells, waving an arm.

kris breaks into a light jog and heads over to where baekhyun is. the moment he reaches him, he sees what’s caught baekhyun’s attention: a tall, spindly table with a thickly-bound book lying on top of it. baekhyun’s skimming through the pages, his smile melting as he does so, until he reaches a page that’s mostly empty except for a couple of things scrawled on top.

“what is it?” kris asks, trying to take a clearer look. baekhyun’s frame is blocking him. he folds his arms over his chest and tries to be patient.

baekhyun pushes the book into kris' chest, and it doesn’t take kris long to notice that the other boy’s hands are unsteady. he reads baekhyun’s expression and sees only a mask, and so kris flips through the book instead.

it’s a list of names and dates.

he can feel the chill crawling up his spine, the way it coats his chest with ice when he realizes that this is a record of all the people who have ended up here in one way or another. he turns to the most recent page and stares at the two lines imprinted on the paper: _byun baekhyun -- 080813, wu kris -- 080813_.

“so, kris,” baekhyun says, a slight tremor underscoring the syllables of his uttered words. “kris _is_ your name, right?”

kris swallows down the sudden parched feeling rising in his throat. “yes, it is.”

“there’s something else i found in that book,” baekhyun says. “read this.” he passes kris what looks like a thin scroll.

kris puts down the book and unrolls the scroll. it’s hard to understand the characters at first -- despite the fact that he’s lived in korea for some time now, and that he’s able to speak the language, he’s still pretty bad at reading it. so he squints until he figures out that the single line of text actually means: _one life. thirty days._

he glances at baekhyun. the latter wets his bottom lip. “what do you think it means?” he whispers, the fingers of his right hand ghosting over the edges of the paper.

kris wants to curse. he hates being unable to know what’s going on. he hates being left in the dark, which makes it all the more ironic because the entire place is flooded with light of the cleanest, purest kind. the strokes of the characters swim in his head.

they hear it, then: a long, low rumbling that echoes throughout the area and drills into their ears. he and baekhyun share a terrified glance.

“i think we’ll know soon,” he says.

 

 

 

 

he wakes up to the most stifling summer of his life. kris can feel the way sweat runs down the sides of his face, and he can’t quite breathe in the humid air. he rolls to the side, trying to search for something cool, and he comes face to face with a sleeping boy.

baekhyun’s mouth is half-open, his chest rising and falling with every successive breath. his eyelashes flutter and his eyebrows crease. a whine of discomfort escapes his lips, and before kris knows it, he’s standing up and turning the electric fan in baekhyun’s direction. the moment he realizes what he’s doing, kris stands still. he takes in the image of the shorter boy, all curled up and emitting puppy sounds every now and then, and he wills himself to turn away.

the room seems like an apartment of some sort, coming complete with furniture and whatnot. he doesn’t recognize this place, doesn’t find a replica of this in his memory, and it’s a far cry from the white space surrounding him and baekhyun previously. he wonders why they’re here now.

kris peers out the window and sees traffic choking the highway. it’s a sepia-toned scene, everything covered in a thin veil of dust, and he watches the people snaking their way through the lines of cars beeping out their frustrations. he closes the window and turns around, intent on exploring this place more.

the calendar on the kitchen wall is open at _june_. kris' thoughts race. what day is it? what month? he remembers dying on the 8th of august, remembers the book and its list and --

but the numbers are blurry. the letters are indistinct. in his head, the image of the book and its contents begins to disintegrate, falling away until kris is unsure of what it’s supposed to contain. he bolts back to the room, trying to find more evidence.

he finds his cellphone under the pillow beside baekhyun’s head. _june 1_ blinks up at him with indignation, as if saying, _why won’t you believe me?_ he scrambles for more proof, but the month-date setting on the clock also says _june 1_. he slides to the floor and leans his head against the wall, mind so disoriented and confused. across from him, baekhyun is still asleep, oblivious to what's going on.

kris stands up. he goes through the room again, opening drawers and cabinets and everything else. he checks the newspapers left lying around. he just wants to understand what’s going on, but there’s nothing substantial here. kris is just about to give up when he sees a piece of paper folded up beside the telephone.

nothing sets it apart from the other objects lying around, but somehow he’s drawn to it. it pulls and pulls and pulls, and soon he’s opening it and reading the short message inside. the second he’s done, he feels like a stone's lodged itself in the chambers of his heart.

this may or may not be his last chance at redemption.

and later on, when kris pushes the letter in front of baekhyun’s bleary eyes, he sees the way baekhyun’s guards surge up. there's a defensive aura that loops around baekhyun, surrounding him in stiffness and stoic masks, and kris can't say that it's not the same for himself. because time’s on rewind and they have a month to live again, and at the end of thirty days they will have to decide which one can continue living.

kris holds baekhyun’s gaze and sees the reflection of his own desires. he can feel the tension, as viscous as syrup, sliding into the room.

they both want to live so goddamn bad.

 

 

 

 

their first day begins with baekhyun yelping at kris in his sleep. it’s dawn breaking over the horizon, casting the room in varying shades of orange, and kris groans as an ache builds up in his bones. baekhyun yelps one more time, and then he falls silent.

kris sits up. now that he’s trapped in the rays of the early morning sun, he begins to wonder. what do you do with a second chance? how do you live after you’ve died? he looks down at baekhyun and drinks in the beauty that’s present from the curves of baekhyun’s cheeks to the angle of his jaw. how does he convince baekhyun to give up his own chance at living for someone who’s the reason why he’s lost his life?

he runs a hand through his hair. all his life, kris has dealt with plenty of problems. he’s brokered deals and negotiated with some of the toughest businessmen to have walked the planet, and he’s handled plenty of emergency strategies to keep himself and his company on top of the food chain. but something like this is beyond him -- it’s an unfamiliar playing field, and kris knows he doesn’t have much time to learn the ropes and master new techniques.

today is his starting point.

he glances at baekhyun’s sleeping form again. this feels too much like a routine: kris being awake and desperate, baekhyun being asleep and unaware. they’re two different souls. who is more deserving?

kris doesn’t want to think about it right now. if he presses on, his mind will combust. he gets up from the bed, taking care not to wake the younger boy, and he heads for the shower.

deep thinking only brings him to darker roads, and he wants to escape.

 

 

 

 

sometimes he has vague flashes of the moments before the accident. dim lights and silent cubicles, classical music and the hum of the air conditioning unit. he’d been working himself to the bone again, pushing against exhaustion just to finish reading the documents for the company’s most recent developments. tao, his bodyguard and his best friend, had watched him from a corner of the room. the younger boy’s eyes had been dark, unreadable.

“it’s getting late, ge,” he remembers tao saying. kris had shaken him off, had told him to go home. tao had been reluctant. “you’re tired. you’re in no fit state to drive, kris-ge, and if i leave you alone you’re never going to stop.”

and kris had sighed, shoving the car keys into tao’s hands. “go. just go.”

as tao had turned to leave, he’d looked back and asked, “will you be alright, ge?”

“yes,” kris had said. “go, tao.”

in retrospect, tao had been right. kris didn’t stop -- he’d worked until the night gave way to day, until the parties in the city streets had died down and the work hours started back up again. then he’d stumbled to his car, body on its way to a breakdown, and he’d known something was wrong the moment his palms shivered when they wrapped around the wheel.

he'd thought that he was okay. he was fine. at first that held true -- he'd coasted down the road with his eyes open and his posture straight, decision-making skills still intact. but halfway through he'd lost coherence, and soon the rights and lefts stopped making sense. then, a second of clarity bursting at the seams:

he should have listened to tao.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

  


day in, day out, kris feels like there are no changes. he and baekhyun wander the streets together. they talk in circles and tangent lines, neither one quite willing to give anything of themselves away. they feed bread to the ducks in the park. kris lingers too long at newspaper stands, and baekhyun tends to stay forever in music stores. but they remember that one rule in the letter: _separate yourselves from your past lives._

the first few days with nothing business-related in his hands had left kris in the middle of a void. he’d been unable to function. his life had begun and ended in the office -- to not even set foot in the company building was nothing short of jarring. he and baekhyun had stayed in the house for some time, doing mindless household chores and watching the tv.

on the fifth day, baekhyun had opened the door. “i’m not wasting the rest of my thirty days here,” he’d said, looking back at kris. “i’m going to make use of every single minute. are you coming?” and he’d walked out without another glance, and kris had fumbled for his shoes.

it’s the eighth day now, and kris feels like he should be doing something. he’s supposed to prove that he’s worthy of a second chance, but how? an entire week has passed. he doesn’t know how to ball up the panic in his chest and throw it to a place far from where it can bother him.

he and baekhyun are sitting on a park bench, both of them staring at nothing. then baekhyun taps him on the arm, and when kris looks at him, he sees curiosity stamped all over baekhyun’s features.

“i just remembered,” baekhyun says, and his eyes light up with the delight of making a new discovery, “your name is wu kris, right?”

“yes,” kris says, wondering where this is going.

“then that means you’re the ceo of chimu corp., right?” in seconds, baekhyun is brandishing a newspaper under kris' nose. kris stares at a full-color spread of himself during the press conference for a merger with an independent clothing brand.

“i don’t understand,” he murmurs. “if we exist now, then how --”

“i don’t understand, either,” baekhyun says, folding up the newspaper. “but this is probably the reason why we’re supposed to separate ourselves from our past lives. they’re still in place. the same events are still happening. we can’t change that.”

“but we walk through the streets,” kris argues. “we talk to people and interact with them. we ask them questions, we say hi, we exchange smiles on the street -- they _see_ us, baekhyun, how else can all that be possible?”

“we’re not ghosts, kris, if that’s what you’re thinking. but i don’t think we’re quite who we are...” baekhyun pauses. “...that we’re who we were.”

kris blinks. “but we look the same. i don’t get it.”

baekhyun sighs. “we may look the same to each other, but maybe people see someone else when they look at us. whatever it is, we have to stay away from our past selves.” he raises an eyebrow at kris. “okay?”

“okay.” kris can’t let it go, not really, but he knows that baekhyun has a point. and he's not sure if he wants to see his past self, see him wasting away under workloads he imposed upon himself.

a slim hand encircles kris' wrist, and soon baekhyun is pulling kris to his feet. “now that that’s settled, i need to show you something.”

“what is it?” kris asks. irritation rises and falls in the quick of his being. he doesn’t want to go anywhere, not right now.

“something to help you loosen up,” baekhyun says, smiling. and with that they’re brisk walking down the streets of seoul, painting the surroundings with kris' protests and baekhyun’s jokes. somewhere along the way, kris starts laughing along, and he finds that he doesn’t really hate this. not at all.

they end up downtown where the streets are lined with dusty shop windows just waking up. lights flicker on and displays are arranged, and it’s 5:45 in the afternoon but it seems the business hours are only starting. baekhyun grins up at him, and kris can’t help but grin back, and in moments they’re both pushing open the doors to a shop with a wrought-iron sign dangling over the doorframe.

it’s a quaint little record shop, the shelves filled with vintage albums. framed music sheets and pictures with crazy designs give life to the light yellow walls, and musical instruments are strewn everywhere. the proprietor is an old man with graying hair and he gives them a warm smile from where he’s sitting on the sofa, his hands idly tuning a violin.

“here,” baekhyun says, his tone hovering on the edges of breathlessness, and he pulls kris to where a majestic grand piano rests on top of a platform. he lets go of kris’ sleeve and sits on the bench in front of the piano, pretty fingers dancing dainty arabesques on the surfaces of the white and black keys.

kris hangs back, unsure of what to do with himself. as he watches baekhyun play note after note, he can’t help but think of how he’s given up the opportunities he's had to pursue something other than the intricacies of the corporate world. the closest thing he’s ever gotten to being free was that brief period of time he’d become part of his high school’s basketball team. but college had swooped in and taken that away, and to this day kris hasn’t forgotten how his father had been the one to hide his jerseys and medals and basketballs signed by some of his favorite players.

baekhyun clears his throat and the sound breaks through the barriers rising in kris' mind. the younger boy glances up at him with an expression that’s bordering on shyness. “i’ll play one of my favorite pieces,” he says, his voice soft. “you can continue browsing the store, if you like.”

and kris looks at him. he looks at baekhyun’s black hair gleaming in the dim lights, at his lips parted by timidness, at the hope that’s embedded in the distracting glimmer of his eyes. so he shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, and he shakes his head. “i’ll stay right here.”

a delicate shade of pink stains baekhyun’s cheeks. “i’m not that good, though,” he murmurs, his body turning to face the piano again. kris resists the urge to tell him that it’s not important if baekhyun can’t play like the classical music prodigies that line the shop’s walls -- that what’s important is that he plays with all the feelings he has in the world, that his fingers coax out the tune of his heart and his soul from the keys.

but then baekhyun starts playing, and kris thinks, _ah, i shouldn’t have worried_. the melody that the piano sings is nothing short of beautiful, and it leaves a tint of wistfulness on the atmosphere of the shop. from the corner of his eye, kris sees the proprietor put the violin down, fold his hands over his lap and close his eyes.

and kris finds himself longing for the court, for the steady rhythm of balls being dribbled and rubber shoes squeaking as they hit the floor. he’s 15 again and intimidated and so, so in love with slam dunks and alley-oops, his dreams all caught up on the net. he fights his way through the mass of bodies, eyes set on the ring, and when he delivers a rainbow shot that whistles through the net, satisfaction floods him from head to toe.

kris blinks. the illusion feels so real, so solid even though he’s still in the shop. baekhyun’s music swirls all around him, gathering him in its arms, and for some strange reason kris wants to cry over missed chances and roads not taken. _what if?_ reverberates in the depths of his mind.

when it ends, kris can’t bring himself to destroy the moment with his claps. instead he says, “that was wonderful. you play so well.”

“yes, you really do.”

baekhyun and kris look up, almost at the same time as the old man stands up from the sofa. he approaches baekhyun, and kris sees uncertainty flicker across baekhyun’s face. but all the old man does is brace himself against the piano, the embers of fondness sparking in the corners of his lips, and baekhyun’s body sags a little in relief.

“you have a gift for handling this instrument,” the old man says. “did you take lessons?”

baekhyun nods his head, the movement somewhat reminiscent of an eager puppy wagging its tail. “yes, when i was younger. then i started studying it on my own.”

“wait a moment. i have something to give you.” with that, the old man turns around and heads for the back of the shop.

there is a question that rests on the tip of his tongue, but kris is unsure if he’s in the position to ask it. despite the fact that he and baekhyun have spent eight days living together, the lines between them remain blurred and indistinct. how can you tell if you’re close enough to someone to plumb into something that’s so personal? kris just doesn’t want to risk it. they’ve only known each other for such a short time --

but what is _time_? what use is it when they both have an expiration date that’s growing closer and closer? they have 22 days left, and kris is nowhere near figuring out how to make this thing work. he feels so much like he’s been stuffed in a cage and the four walls are closing in, in, in.

“my mother was a singer,” baekhyun says, and in the silence the statement weights heavier than it should. “my dad was an artist. i was six years old when they made me take piano lessons.” his hands grip the edges of the bench. “at the time, i hated it.”

“why?” kris asks, gaze focused on the small of baekhyun’s back.

half-strangled laughter issues from baekhyun’s throat. “because it felt like it wasn’t something that defined me. it wasn’t something that i picked up on my own. my parents were already well-known in the field of music and the arts -- of course their son would follow in their footsteps! i hated it because i wanted to forge my own identity.”

an image of his father shines through kris' memories and he shakes his head, trying to make it go away. “so what happened?” he asks.

“i quit.” baekhyun turns around to face him, and when his lips curve up it’s an attempt at holding in the tears. kris isn’t blind to the way baekhyun’s eyes are too bright. “i quit, and then everyone started whispering behind my family’s back. they criticized my parents, they criticized me. but i was deaf to everyone. i wanted to prove myself, see, and i wanted to do it in a field that’s far from music and the arts.”

“and what was that?”

“sports.” in the light, baekhyun looks a little more fragile than usual. “i joined the soccer team. i sucked at it, but it felt so good to run through the grass and try to kick balls into the net. my parents were supportive. they watched the games even though i ended up warming the bench most of the time, and they never pressured me into picking up the piano again. i could see it in the way they covered the piano with a blanket, though. the hushed whispers when i left the room. they never talked to me face to face.

“but one day, i was passing by the music room on my way to the field. that was when i heard this sweet song meandering out the door, and i was drawn to it. when i peeked inside, i saw the back of some guy’s head -- but more than that, my attention was on the piano that stood proudly in the middle of the room. and as i listened to him, i realized that i wanted to do the same thing, to pour every piece of myself into playing the piano.

“that day, i dropped my soccer cleats and buried my jersey somewhere in the back of my drawer. and i went back to the piano.”

“that’s...” kris doesn’t know what to say. somehow it feels like baekhyun’s exposed himself and he’s naked, and kris is still light years away from doing the same. but he’s thankful for it, too. thankful for the nugget of truth that’s existing between them now, and he’s one step closer to knowing the boy who always looks like he’s wearing clothes that are too large for him. “that’s amazing.” it’s not quite enough and it sounds out of place, but it’s the only thing he can express in words.

the old man reappears then, carrying a rectangular wooden box. baekhyun scrambles to his feet.

“this contains the music sheets for some of the loveliest piano pieces i’ve ever heard,” the old man says. he gives the box to baekhyun and baekhyun takes it, hands caressing the carvings on the lid. “learn them. play them for me. play those songs as if they are the last things you will ever leave behind when you die.”

kris shivers, just a tiny bit. it almost feels like the old man knows something they don’t.

a twinkle appears in the old man’s eyes. “i’m getting old. this shop is getting old as well. but when i go, i want the music to live on. i want it to grow and shift and change, but more than that, i want it to stay.” he taps baekhyun’s chest. “keep it safe, boy.”

when they leave the shop, it’s with the faint regret that things are forgotten so easily in this world. kris thinks of the 25 years now long gone -- of every moment he’s spent opening his eyes to a new day, of the times he’s taken his own life for granted. he thinks of chances that are lost and are never found, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets because it feels too cold all of a sudden.

baekhyun clutches the box to himself. his voice blends with the wind whistling when he opens his mouth to speak.

“let’s go home.”

 

 

 

they find themselves standing in the kitchen on the eleventh day. kris holds a bag of all-purpose flour in one hand and a recipe in the other, and he tries to decipher if he’s supposed to just dump the flour in the pan and hope it gets cooked. beside him, baekhyun clucks with impatience.

“wear an apron,” baekhyun suggests. kris glances at the floral atrocity that baekhyun is holding up, and he raises an eyebrow.

“i’m a guy. i don’t need aprons,” he says. “okay, so we need an egg --”

baekhyun rolls his eyes. “of course we need an egg, kris,” he says. “haven’t you ever cooked pancakes before?”

the silence that meets his words is a more than enough answer.

baekhyun sighs. “i do not want to destroy this kitchen. it looks nice.”

kris feels like he should be offended, but he also knows how bad he is at cooking. or, actually, that his cooking skills are non-existent. his protest is half-hearted at best. “it won’t be destroyed.”

“yeah, and chickens can fly,” baekhyun snorts.

“but they do,” kris says, confused. “only at a short height, though. their bodies are --”

“okay, okay,” baekhyun interrupts. “ _ostriches_ , then. i’m pretty sure ostriches can’t fly.”

“nope,” kris says, “they run.”

“if only your intelligence extends to actually being able to cook something edible,” baekhyun says. “we should have gone for take-out.”

kris squints at the procedure outlined in the recipe, wondering why it’s necessary to go through all this trouble for a simple pancake. mcdonald’s can whip one up in a heartbeat. “if this fails, we’re calling for delivery.”

“why do you want to do this, anyway?” baekhyun asks, hoisting himself up on the marble countertop of the kitchen’s island. “it’s not like you don’t have money.”

kris puts down the recipe and begins to gather the ingredients he needs in one place. “that’s the thing. i have the money. i’ve always had the money, so i’ve never done anything for myself.” he waves a hand over the pots and pans hanging from a rack on the wall to his right. “i was pretty much the stereotypical rich guy, you know? my family had a huge company that was pulling in so much profit, there was never any need for us to do household chores. we had maids, drivers and cooks everywhere. all that was ever expected of me was to study business and take my father’s place later on.” he turns to face baekhyun. “this may not be new to you, but it is to me. you can laugh if you want to.”

the look on baekhyun’s face doesn’t make it seem like giggles will start spilling out of his lips anytime soon. strangely enough, kris is grateful for that. “why pancakes, though?” baekhyun asks, his tone thoughtful. “i mean, you could start with canned goods. they’re easier.”

“i don’t know. it’s just...” kris looks at the bag of flour that he’s set down near the stove. “i want to know what a homemade pancake tastes like.” he’s falling down the path of reminiscing, and he can see that baekhyun’s waiting for him to say the things that clutter his vocal cords, and kris thinks that maybe, maybe it’s not so bad to be honest about his feelings once in a while. “when i was in college, i’d listen to my friends and roommates talk about their mothers’ or grandmothers’ cooking. i stayed quiet whenever the topic was brought up. my grandmother was insensible and wasting away by the time i was old enough to meet her, and my mother never really took the time to learn to cook.

“i had this roommate from canada. he couldn’t really speak a word of korean, so he was lonely most of the time. he talked to me, though, and every morning we’d go down to the university dorm’s cafeteria to eat breakfast.

“he’d always order pancakes. he’d ask for ten of them, and then he’d ask for syrup and butter. but whenever he’d finish eating them, he’d always have this look of dissatisfaction.” kris closes his eyes. if he rewinds time far enough, he can still summon up a clear image of tao’s brooding glare and the subtle slump of his shoulders. “one day, he just broke down.

“the thing is, his mother had always made pancakes for him, and she also had this special kind of syrup that she’d made herself. when he arrived in korea, he missed it so much that he’d trudge from restaurant to restaurant, trying to find pancakes that resembled the ones his mother made. his search was never successful. the day he broke down was also the day he told me that he was going to stop searching.”

and it’s right there, a vision rippling in front of him: tao ducking his head as tears ran down his face, his voice breaking with every syllable of _i’m going to stop this, kris-ge. i need to learn how to stand up on my own now. i need to stop being so sentimental._ it’s so vivid that kris has to pull back his own hand from reaching out. he lets loose a small, low chuckle. “i guess i want to understand that feeling.”

baekhyun is quiet. then he hops off the island counter, walks to a spot beside kris, and he claps his hands. “okay! let’s get this going, then. if you’re going to try cooking pancakes, then i guess i have to help so that this kitchen doesn’t get burned down.”

kris raises an eyebrow. “are you sure?” somehow, he feels relieved. he doesn’t even know how one is supposed to _sift_ flour.

“sure as sure can be,” baekhyun says, and when he looks up there is a pretty smile on his face that takes kris’ breath away. it makes his head reel for a second. “so. are you ready?”

kris takes a deep breath. “ready.”

an hour later, both of them sit with their kfc take-out boxes in the midst of the mess they’ve created. there is a stack of dark brown pancakes steaming in the sink, flour dust everywhere, and various utensils thrown to just about every corner of the kitchen. as kris surveys the area while chewing on his chicken leg, he thinks that it’s a downright disaster.

and kris doesn’t know why, but he’s happy to have tried doing something he’s never done before. he’s happy to have taken that step and failed at it, and to go down laughing the moment they both taste the pancakes he’s made. failure isn’t something that’s taken lightly in his family -- his father’s always made sure that kris has always had an excellent track record. but this kind of failure isn’t something he’s going to beat himself up over, because it’s also the kind of failure that he thinks he’s needed for a long, long time. no one can be good at everything.

“baekhyun?” the owner of the name looks up, gaze inquisitive. there is a speck of flour on his cheek. “thank you,” kris says, and he knows he means it.

baekhyun shrugs it off. “it’s nothing. let’s promise one thing, though?”

kris feels like he knows where this is going. “what is it?”

baekhyun chucks an unused straw at him and kris ducks. “let’s never do this again.”

as he watches baekhyun start to pick up the litter lying around in the kitchen, kris smiles to himself. he agrees with baekhyun on that one.

 

 

 

 

they keep wandering the streets. neither one really knows why there’s this thirst for getting lost that bubbles up deep within them, but it’s not like there’s anything else they can do. and as they find themselves in unfamiliar areas of seoul, kris realizes that there’s so much he doesn’t know. in the back of his mind, he’s always been aware that he’s been closed off in a glass palace with no windows and doors, and he’s steeped in so much obliviousness that he’s half-blind to everything.

but this is different. it hits him in the face when they end up in a boarded-up alley that reeks too much of loss, and it hurts all the more because it’s only a five-minute walk from his company’s building. he stares at the muddy puddles that form on the ground, at the flies buzzing over dumpsters like vultures seeking carrion, and he can feel hopelessness making its home in the pit of his stomach. the sight disgusts him, yes. but as baekhyun steers the two of them away, kris realizes that he’s more disgusted at himself and the fact that he hasn’t done anything to change this.

he’s had advocacies, of course. he’s donated to charities. but all of that's been done to silence the rumors of _tax evasion_ and _dirty money_ that lash out at him when he faces the media, and to be honest it’s always been his secretary who handles most of the paperwork. kris is there to lend some sort of authenticity to the entire thing, when everyone -- the media, the public, the employees -- knows that it’s all just for show.

he takes one last glance at the alley, and despite how much he wants to tear himself away from the poison that’s corroding his soul, he can’t help but think of how many lives have faded in the shadows of the dumpsters and the brick walls looming overhead. it’s driving him insane.

the moment baekhyun sees his expression, concern flickers in his eyes. “we need ice cream,” he declares, and kris can’t find it in himself to argue against baekhyun. he’s dragged through crowds in a ceaseless search for nowhere, and it seems like they slow down the more distance they cover. baekhyun throws him a look that spells worry over his shoulder, and then he’s leading the way into an ice cream shop with walls painted in the colors of the rainbow.

the cheery atmosphere just makes kris feel even worse than before. baekhyun asks him to choose a flavor but words escape him, and baekhyun sighs and settles on vanilla for himself and green tea for kris. they find a table tucked away in the back of the shop, and kris remains silent as baekhyun tries to dispel the tension with jokes about the neighbor’s cat. but soon he realizes that kris isn’t listening, not really, so he swallows down the last of his waffle cone.

“what’s wrong?” baekhyun demands. “you usually go against me, or at least you try to respond in monosyllables. but today you’re not, and it’s bothering the heck out of me because you usually aren’t like this!”

“what do you know about who i am as a person?” kris snaps back. baekhyun flinches, and his fingers find their way to the edges of the tabletop. “you don’t know anything about me, baekhyun.”

“you’re right. i don’t.” baekhyun’s voice is strained. “i don’t know anything about you because you don’t fucking tell me things about yourself, kris. you hide in your shell and glare at everything and you’re too fucking serious most of the time, but then you smile and you laugh and you want cook pancakes because you’ve never tasted one that’s homemade!” by now baekhyun’s chest is heaving, and his frustration is threaded through the atmosphere between them.

“you don’t understand,” kris says, feeling an unnecessary urge to defend himself -- unnecessary because who is byun baekhyun to him, anyway? what does it matter how the other one sees him? yes, they’re still pawns in the game of life. they’re still in a mental battle over who should live and who should die. but at this point, kris is spent. he can’t lower his guards any further. he has too many things to hide, unlike baekhyun who’s probably spent most of his life being open to everyone, always free to do what he wants to do.

baekhyun stares him down, and kris feels like he’s being caged. “then _make_ me understand, kris.”

he’s not supposed to do it. he’s not supposed to give in and let the words overflow. kris has never been the vocal type, has never gone through so much trouble to express himself. he’s always been more inclined to explain himself through gazes that are interpreted wrongly and gestures that are thought of as snappish and rude. he’s a person governed by logic and rationalism, and in the world he’s grown up in, every step is wrapped in layers of caution.

for some reason, baekhyun strips all of that away, and kris doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. it pours out, like a rusty faucet that’s turned on the whole way through: the alley, his disgust at himself, his apathy, his frustrations, his insecurities, and that ever-growing certainty he has of not putting his life to good use.

“i need to do something, baekhyun,” he says, and he can hear the desperation that’s intertwined with his voice. “i’ve never done anything worthwhile the whole time i’ve been alive.”

“listen to yourself, kris.” baekhyun’s anger is turned down low now, and despite the fact that the creases on his eyebrows haven’t quite smoothened out yet, his mood’s just set to a light simmer. “do you even hear what you’re saying? just because you’re, well, emotionally indifferent doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. you keep thinking there’s a catch. you fixate on ulterior motives and business strategies, so much so that you forget that there’s a real person beneath that facade who cares about other people, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.”

“but --”

“but nothing!” baekhyun throws up his hands. “kris, if that weren’t true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” he leans closer and taps kris’ chest. “if that weren’t true, you wouldn’t be having this crisis. you _care_. even if you’re not quite aware of it, you do care, and that’s what matters.”

it feels like a boulder’s been pushed out of his chest. kris relishes the sensation of being able to breathe again, of taking something from the rest of the world without feeling like he’s going to destroy it. it’s new and it’s wonderful, and kris captures it in his heart where he can find it when he’s hit by his regrets again.

baekhyun pushes up the corners of his lips, and kris follows suit. he’s been liberated and it’s a relief, and as they step out of the shop, kris just wants to fly.  
  
“so what’s really your favorite ice cream flavor?” baekhyun asks as they slip through the throng of bodies flooding the sidewalks.

“actually,” kris says, “you got it right.”

above them, the sky is a patchwork of colors woven together. white becomes orange, orange bleeds into pink, pink darkens to a light purple, and the light purple becomes a shade of blue that speaks so much of longing. it’s a sight that kris can fall asleep to.

their fifteenth day ends on a night without stars.

 

 

 

 

sometimes they drift apart. they’re two boats tied together and left to float on uncharted waters, and there are moments when they strain against the twine and go their separate ways. mornings arrive where kris opens his eyes to the incomplete feeling of having no one beside him; nights fall where he himself doesn’t come home.

neither one demands for company. in some strange way, they’ve come to respect each other’s space. kris and baekhyun can spin the hours away with shared memories, but they can also walk their own paths. there isn’t any explicit rule for the two of them to stay together, after all, and so they reclaim their individual privacy on the days they need it most.

kris doesn’t know where baekhyun disappears to in the tranquility of a rising morn. it’s something he’s never thought to ask the latter, and perhaps he never will. like kris, baekhyun has his own share of secrets, snippets of his life that are better left buried and untouched.

kris takes his own journeys through the city and sometimes beyond. days pass which he spends experiencing life in the provinces armed only with a red backpack, and when he returns to the apartment in seoul, he finds it vacant. he shrugs his shoulders and deposits his backpack in a corner, and he’s just about to get the hot water running for a shower when his eyes lock onto a slight movement to his left. kris approaches it, stance on the defensive. he’s never heard reports of this place being a crime-infested neighborhood but he’s not taking any chances.

he’s just about to deliver (what he thinks is) a powerful blow when his eyes register the figure that’s in front of him. baekhyun’s curled up in the middle of the balcony, face pressed against his knees. under the faint glow of the moon he’s so small, and kris has to kneel down and peer at baekhyun’s chest to make sure he’s still breathing. he wonders what the other guy’s doing here, sleeping outside in this chilly air, when he realizes that baekhyun’s humming something. it’s indistinguishable from the noise that streams out of the city at night, and all kris can make out are segments of a broken tune.

he settles on his heels and waits. to be honest his body’s tired and his mind’s yearning for sleep, and although being away from the metro is peaceful, kris still gets drained by the travel time. but he stays there, a solitary soul watching over baekhyun, and he basks in the shivers brought by the breeze.

eventually kris’ legs go numb; eventually baekhyun lifts his head and looks up. and kris has so many things to say, so many questions to ask, but everything disappears when he realizes that the trails of silver running down baekhyun’s cheeks are tears.

he’s never been the one with the shoulder to cry on, and now he’s lost and helpless, unable to offer comfort to baekhyun. all his life, kris has been a person devoid of emotion. detachment’s the only way one can survive in a sea of businessmen who are sharks, and he’s learned a long time ago that not letting himself bear the brunt of feelings has brought him more good than harm. but for the past few weeks he’s felt a sudden shift, felt the tiny cracks growing in the stoic mask he’s cultivated for so long.

without even thinking, kris reaches his hand out to baekhyun then stops, letting it hover in mid-air. baekhyun doesn’t seem to notice. he sniffles, a perfect portrait of tainted innocence, and his eyelashes are dew-dipped in pain. “you’re back,” he says, and the huskiness of his tone is more pronounced than ever.

“are you...” kris hesitates. he’s standing on shaky ground, and he’s not sure what will happen next. “are you okay?”

baekhyun takes in a deep breath and he nods. “yes,” he says. and it seems like he’s fine, like the sadness that covers him from head to toe is nothing more than a veil that’s easy to throw away. but kris doesn’t miss the way baekhyun’s lower lip quivers, the way his words are rocked with disguised tremors, the way his hands tuck themselves into fists.

“no, you’re not,” kris says. the distance between him and baekhyun is one step. a single step and he’s there, right there beside baekhyun, but somehow it’s as far as a thousand miles on land and a stretch of open sea. kris doesn’t know how to do this, how to make tears go away, how to ask demons to vanish when they lurk every day in the corners of his own mind. but for some reason, baekhyun’s melancholy makes him want to try.

baekhyun turns his face away. his entire body’s shaking, and kris doesn’t know what’s happened to make baekhyun like this. but that’s beyond the point now -- it doesn’t matter, it _shouldn’t_ matter, and kris places an arm around baekhyun’s shoulders.

as a child, he’d never been held. kris had been raised by nannies who came and went, and his own mother had always been too preoccupied with her perfume and clothing companies. the only hugs he’d gotten were from his friends when he was older: the group huddles after every basketball game, the pats on the back, the random ambushes that brought bodies together and led to wrestling bouts. he’d been in relationships, of course -- relationships that crashed and burned and shattered into pieces because kris could never give anyone more than a quarter of his attention.

it’s unfamiliar, somehow, to be the one putting his arms around someone. what makes it even more different is the fact that kris has never been the one to offer warmth. there is a frozen tundra at his core, and fingers of ice creep into his system and cuts him off from heat. but kris is trying to shed all of that away, and as baekhyun dissolves into sobs that claw at him from left to right, kris gathers him closer.

somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that there are wounds that heal and wounds that fester. baekhyun’s got the latter kind, and kris knows how hard it is to deal with something that’s scarred you for the rest of your life. he’s dealt with several of them through the years, carefully pushing them aside to where no one can sneak a peek, and when he tries to reopen them they just cause so much suffering.

at first his lips are shut, and the only sounds breaking through the haze of the midnight revelry are baekhyun’s fractured breaths. but soon kris is murmuring things in baekhyun’s ears, random tidbits that fail to make sense but begin to erase the frown that should never be on the other guy’s face. progress is slow and baekhyun’s near inconsolable, and all kris can do is keep holding on. he can’t find it in himto leave baekhyun here even if he himself is being tempted by sleep.

the sun is resting on the horizon by the time baekhyun’s tears vanish. the shorter guy’s fast asleep, eyes rimmed red and lips parted halfway. kris runs his fingers through baekhyun’s hair one last time, and it’s with a waning bit of consciousness that he thinks, _he’s finally stopped crying._

and after that: _nine days left._

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

  


they don’t talk about that night. instead they fit themselves back into the regular pattern of things, joking and laughing and arguing with each other, and kris thinks that he’s never enjoyed anything this much. he doesn’t ask questions and baekhyun doesn’t explain, and they’re toeing the line between truth and secrecy every time they open a new topic to talk about.

often kris catches himself lingering in places, content to watch baekhyun skip ahead and explore. he doesn’t know how the two of them have managed to condense a lifetime into 24 days, but it causes happiness to surge within him, and he knows he’s leaving this earth content with the knowledge that he hasn’t done anything he’s regretted.

that’s the thing. somewhere along the way, he’s realized that maybe, just maybe, he’s not that hell-bent on being the one to live. and it’s not even that he’s given up on life -- kris has never been the kind of person who gives up, and he’s almost always certain to be on the winning end. but sometimes when he looks at baekhyun he sees the hope that the other boy carries with him, the innate joy and passion that haven’t quite been shared with the rest of the world.

baekhyun’s pulled him out of his shell so much, and all kris can do is try to return the favor. he has a cut-and-dried heart trudging onwards to exhaustion, and though 25 years is too short for all the things that kris wants to do, he’s ready to accept that. he’s ready for a life that’s not quite a life, and so he’s pretty much set on casting his vote for baekhyun.

in the chaos emerging from lunch-hour traffic, him and baekhyun navigate their way past several buildings. they round a corner, and kris’ heart skips a hundred trillion beats, and his pulse is on the verge of being erratic as his feet pound against the cement. he’s brought up short by a steel gate that seems to be locked, but when kris places a hand against it and pushes, it swings wide open.

baekhyun’s a constant presence hanging in the air behind him, and he can hear the light patter of the shorter guy’s footsteps. kris looks around. it’s so, so huge and so, so vacant, and it takes him back to early morning practices with the lights off and the rings indistinct in the darkness.

he spots a basketball waiting for someone to claim it from its spot near the half-court line. his veins thrum with excitement as he jogs towards it and picks it up, and when he dribbles it, the sound it creates is almost music to his ears. he twists to face the ring. it’s a huge one, tall and unreachable, and kris has missed this so much. he hasn’t done this for a long, long time.

he positions himself and bends his knees, and in the embrace of the warm afternoon, kris imagines that he’s surrounded by other players. his vision tunnels towards the net. it’s the only thing in this entire place right now, and it’s the only thing that matters. he inhales.

and then he’s soaring lightning-quick through visions of players blocking him and trying to steal the ball, and kris is on a journey that he’s not willing to cut short. he runs, he spins -- and the ball’s falling straight into the net as kris hangs on to the ring by a finger. he lets go and hits the ground the same time the ball does, and he watches it roll away with a soft smile on his face. he lets his knees collapse, lets his body fall to the floor, lets the ceiling and the net swim above him in a blur of orange and white and gray. it feels like all of the tension’s been kneaded out of the knots forming in his shoulders.

baekhyun jogs towards him, and in the backlight that suffuses the court, he’s almost glowing. “that was amazing!” he yells, tone giddy and bright. “you okay?”

kris brings his arms over his eyes but lets the grin remain. “never been better.”

he can feel baekhyun folding himself up to sit beside kris, and for a moment they just stay static. then baekhyun begins to hum, and it’s the same fragmented tune that kris remembers from the night that baekhyun had cried, and he thinks that it’s so pretty when it’s echoing in the surroundings like this.

“you really love music, don’t you?” kris says, lowering his arm so he can look up at baekhyun. all he gets is a silhouette and a halo of white that makes baekhyun’s expression indiscernible, but kris thinks that the other guy’s face is probably tinted with everything that’s been left unbroken.

baekhyun taps the back of kris’ hand and flips it over, and he traces _yes_ into the lines of kris’ palm. “yeah,” he says, “i do.” his fingers begin to draw circles on kris’ wrist, over and over and over. “you love basketball, don’t you?”

kris makes a noncommittal sound. he thinks of file drawers and ledgers, of the way a hush blankets the house when he comes home from basketball practice with his bag slung over one shoulder, or the expectations that build up around him when he isn’t looking. he wonders if it’s possible to love something when you’ve done your damnedest to suppress it, if love is still love when you try to hide it from everything else.

he looks at baekhyun and wonders if it’s love when you want to protect something so bad.

“i want to teach you something,” kris says, and then he’s pulling baekhyun and himself up. he gets the ball and returns to baekhyun’s side. by now the shorter one’s biting back amusement but kris can see the laughter dancing in his eyes. “do you know how to dribble?”

“of course,” baekhyun says, sounding a bit miffed. he rolls up his sleeves.

“good,” kris says, keeping his face stoic. “let’s play.”

and before baekhyun even registers shock, kris is pushing past him and heading for the other side. baekhyun’s reflexes catch up a second too slow, and kris has got the ball in and he’s aiming for another, and so baekhyun does what baekhyun always does in desperate situations: he tackles kris, and laughter erupts between the two of them.

halfway through another lay-up past the harmlessness of baekhyun’s blocks, baekhyun screams up at him, “how the hell is this teaching me anything? plus your height’s an unfair advantage!”

kris lets baekhyun secure the ball. he blows away the hair that’s glued by sweat to his forehead, and he allows a cryptic smile to spread over his lips. “i’m teaching you to _move_.”

baekhyun narrows his eyes at him. “are you saying i’m fat?” kris can almost see the smoke curling out of his ears. baekhyun grits his teeth. “we’ll see about that.”

and then everything becomes puzzle pieces all jumbled up together, and kris thinks this entire thing doesn’t really make sense. baekhyun plays the piano, and his hands aren’t made for anything else. kris exists because of office work, and he’s not supposed to rekindle a passion for something that he’s burned down. but here they are, feet abusing the surface of the court, hands relentless in the search for chinks in the other one’s armor. baekhyun puts up a decent fight and his cheeks are streaked red, and once or twice he manages to put away the ball and steal a point.

kris taunts him whenever this happens, and he thinks it’s fun to see the fight that rises within baekhyun. it’s ironic how they’re two players in an otherwise empty court, and they’re prowling for weak spots while thinking of defense strategies. it’s not that different from the game they’ve been forced to join in the past 24 days. he thinks of the words jumping out at him from the piece of paper they’d found, of decisions and opportunity costs, of how life changes depending on the perspective you take.

they’re two lines running parallel between life and death, and they converge at the peak of a jump-touch that has the ball flying to a corner of the court. he and baekhyun fall back down at the same instant. they breathe, chests rising and falling in the approaching twilight, and kris can see the beads of sweat forming on baekhyun’s brow.

“that was fun,” baekhyun says, and it sounds like his heartbeat’s not quite shifted back to normal. kris looks at him and thinks, _so small_. he won’t last in a real game. half a quarter in and baekhyun will be pushed aside and crushed, but right now he’s pretending as if all of that doesn’t bother him.

“yeah,” kris says, and he feels lighter than he’s ever felt. “yes, it was.”

they can hear the _let’s do it again some other time_ that’s whispering in the spaces holding them apart, but neither one chooses to voice it. there is no _some other time_. there is only _this time_ , and it’s something they have to live with until the 30th rolls around.

they both leave the place with a chip of somberness embedded into their hearts, but kris thinks that at least he’s gathered enough happiness to last him until the end of his own world.

 

 

 

 

the clock is ticking faster now, and kris often catches himself thinking _it’s not enough_. he looks at the red marks dripping from the month of june, marking off the days that have passed, and it hits him that there are only two blank spaces left. he finds baekhyun staring at it too, eyes fathomless with contemplation, and if he notices kris he doesn’t say anything.

at this point, kris’ decision is made up. he’s gone from trying to prove himself worthy to simply taking a step back, and when baekhyun asks him why a smile curls up in the corners of his lips, kris just shrugs his shoulders. he’s not yet done with living, not quite. but he’s had a good run, and acceptance leaves him free and unburdened.

the only thing he regrets is not knowing baekhyun more. he’s been privy to pieces of who baekhyun is as a person, to swatches of the guy who makes friends everywhere and turns frowns into smiles. kris thinks that what baekhyun’s shared with him is just a spoonful of what the latter holds within, and in a fly-by-night world it’s far from encapsulating the beauty of a human being. but he’ll take what he can get, and to be honest it’s better than having known nothing at all about baekhyun.

so he opens his eyes to a pillow that smacks his chest, and then baekhyun’s laughter wraps around him as the shorter guy pulls him up. “we’re going somewhere today!” he chirps, voice teetering on the edges of a song, and kris bites back his amusement at how enthusiastic baekhyun is.

sunrise pools in the doorstep by the time the two of them leave the apartment. baekhyun’s fingers clutch kris’ sleeve as per usual, and he chatters away the miles like he always does. kris doesn’t want this to stop, doesn’t want to sign himself away like this, but at the same time there’s nothing else he wants to do more. sometimes he wonders how different everything would have been if he’d met baekhyun earlier, if he’d found him in someplace other than the aftermath of the car crash. the possibilities torture him, night after endless night, and kris hates how much time has been wasted.

baekhyun brings him to the eleventh floor of a medium-rise building where the rooms are muted and the crevices are covered up with silence. cold air courses through the carpeted hallways. they stop at a door tucked away where only prying eyes can find it, and it’s not until baekhyun’s touch leaves him that kris realizes baekhyun had been holding his hand. he doesn’t know how to feel about that -- it leaves a storm brewing in his system, and he pushes all the disaster signals away.

it’s a music room, one that’s soundproof and huge. the walls seem to be waiting for a melody to whisper past them, cloaked as they are in white paint. kris doesn’t even question what baekhyun's about to do -- if it’s not obvious by now, then kris’ intelligence has somehow degraded after a month of not being in the office. he spots an armchair and sits down, watching as baekhyun blows his cheeks out and perches on the piano bench that seems to swallow him whole. he clears his throat once, twice, and he shoots kris a nervous glance. kris tilts his head in silent encouragement.

when baekhyun plays, the room holds itself still. it’s as if the objects know the significance of the notes twirling all around them, as if the _arpeggio_ s and _staccato_ s and _vivace_ s mean something more than musical technicalities. kris rests his head against the back of the armchair and listens, just savoring the way baekhyun’s hands nudge loveliness out of the piano keys.

he does not expect a voice to rise out of the melody. he doesn’t expect it to be as lovely as the abstract tune, does not expect the way words trip straight into a parade of quarter notes and make the song more meaningful. baekhyun’s a good singer, his open vowels resonating in the space, and it’s only the two of them in here but kris gets this impression that the place is full.

baekhyun ends with a fade-away, voice trickling down to a murmur that’s aching with loss. then kris’ applause resounds, long and loud and overflowing with all the things he wants to say but doesn’t, and he approaches baekhyun. “that was really, really beautiful,” he says, and he can hear the honesty leaking out of his tone.

“was it?” baekhyun sounds like his nerves are still turning him inside-out. “i’ve been working on it for some time now.”

“it’s the song you’ve been humming lately, right?” kris peeks over baekhyun’s shoulder at the sheets propped up on the music stand. _second chances_ is scrawled on the top of the first page. “it’s good. i didn’t know you were a singer.”

baekhyun ducks his head. “i’m not...my voice isn’t anything special. i just had some lessons, that’s all. i’m better at doing instrumentals.”

“hmmm,” kris says. he doesn’t agree but he doesn’t want to start an argument over this, either. “still, you did a wonderful job.”

“that’s always been my dream.” baekhyun absent-mindedly presses key after key. “to compose a song by myself. i didn’t know if i could do it in thirty days, but i pushed myself to do it before i die a second time.”

his statement injects disbelief into kris’ system. “what?” his voice is flat, cracking out like a whip.

baekhyun peeks up at him. his eyes are so, so clear, and kris doesn’t want to see what he knows he’ll see in the depths of those sweet brown irises. “i’ve decided that i’m going to let you live, kris,” he says. “you deserve it --”

“in what dimension do i deserve it?” kris can hear the self-mockery emerging from his throat. “baekhyun, have you forgotten why we’re here?”

baekhyun pauses and wets his lips. “that’s not important, kris,” he says. “it has nothing to do with anything.”

“it’s got everything to do with all that’s happened to us!” kris shouts. baekhyun shrinks back, and fear is now shining in his eyes. “this is my fault, baekhyun. it’s _my_ fault.”

“it’s not, kris,” baekhyun says, shaking his head, and kris doesn’t miss the hurt that’s peeking through baekhyun’s guards. “it’s not. it never was.”

and kris can’t stay. he can’t stay here, not like this, not when baekhyun’s on the tipping point of crying and he’s responsible for it. this is not what he wants it to be. “it is, baekhyun,” he says, “and you should know by now that you’re the one who deserves to live.”

then he’s making his way out of the room, door slamming closed behind him, and his heart crumbles just a bit when he ignores baekhyun calling after him.

baekhyun is wrong. kris doesn’t deserve to live at all.

 

 

 

 

 

he doesn’t go home.

he spends the night by the river, eyes tracking the ebb and flow of the water. it has somewhere to go while kris is immobile, and he envies how people can carve their own routes and never back down from going through them. it’s something that he’s never been able to do.

there are times when he wonders if he’d been the one to cage himself. maybe, maybe if he’d had the courage, he could have fought against his father’s wishes and followed the dreams that took hold of him when he was alone in his room. they were dreams of buzzers echoing and bodies brushing past, of a ball being passed from hand to hand and the squeaks of rubber shoes on the floor. they were dreams he’d held in the palm of his hand and crushed in the same breath.

baekhyun had deviated, too. he’d searched for a way out from his own path, dabbling in the world of soccer for a while. but he’d been able to return to the piano and he’d never left it since, and it makes kris wonder why he’s never done the same.

he finds a rough stone and throws it as hard as he can. it hurts to think of baekhyun. it hurts to think of their last moment together, of the fight that’s erupted between them when death is dawning soon. it hurts when kris remembers the tears forming in baekhyun’s eyes, the unsteadiness of baekhyun’s hands, the fear shining on baekhyun’s face. he buries his face in his knees and tries to breathe.

but perhaps that was the last push baekhyun had needed to turn away from kris completely. and kris doesn’t want to let things end like this, to create a gap between them when the days are falling through the spaces between his fingers, and he can’t hold on to them any longer. he has no choice -- at least, he doesn’t believe he does. the reality of it all is crashing straight into him, and he knows he has no right to stay by baekhyun’s side.

kris greets the morning with eyes wide and heart still open and exposed to the cold. the water gushes past and it’s as if the wind is giggling at him, and he sighs as he stands up. he’s got some money on him but he has no idea what to do, and he lets himself be swept along by the crowd.

he finds himself standing in front of a familiar coffee shop, its time-worn facade saying _hello_ to him like an old friend. it takes him a minute to skim his memories and another minute to push open the doors, and as he does so the wind chimes shower him in happy sounds. he breathes in the comforting scent of espresso with a hint of mint. kris looks around, wondering if he’ll see him, and there’s a jolt tearing through him when he does.

his past self is sitting at his usual corner table, his usual cup of americano left untouched and his table littered with documents. kris tears his attention away long enough to order espresso, and he chooses to sit three tables away from his past self. the shop is quiet, permeated only by the little everyday sounds that are present everywhere.

it jars him, seeing the contrast between himself and the kris of the past. past kris is several pounds too light for his frame, and even in the darkness his skin glows a pasty white. he’s caught up in a whirlwind of work even in a place that’s made for resting, and years ago kris might have thought that was okay. noble, even. being hard-working was something to be proud of.

but after he’s met baekhyun he recognizes how rundown the past kris is, how his life’s been derailed down broken tracks that only hold a future of redundancy and caged thoughts. he sees the dissatisfaction sewn into past kris’ spine; he sees the exhaustion turning him into an empty shell.

in the past few weeks, baekhyun has changed him. he’s wormed his way into kris’ skin and stolen away his trust, and now kris doesn’t know how to function without him, how to bear with the oppression of the life he used to live. he doesn’t know how to go through all of that again -- he doesn’t want to.

kris leaves after he’s drained his cup dry. he looks at his past self one last time, at how the sun’s braided itself into his hair. _good luck_ , he thinks to himself. </i>you’ve done your best</i>.

baekhyun is curled up in the sofa, his shoulders slumping down with worry, when kris arrives at the apartment. he takes off his shoes and his jacket, and he pads over to where baekhyun is.

“did you wait up for me?” he murmurs, carding his fingers through baekhyun’s hair. it makes him think of how dependent they were on each other for the first few days, of the instances they’d kept their concern to themselves when the other one didn’t come home. because this is their home, now, this apartment. this is where their life together began, and this is where it will end.

baekhyun’s eyes flutter, just a tiny bit. and then they blink open, shock flooding into the depths, and he sits up. “you’re home,” he says, and kris can see how his hands are shaking. his own hands are shaking, too. “i was so -- i was so --”

“i’m sorry,” kris says, and he knows he’s giving up. he’s giving up, and all his guards are falling down, and he reaches out to gather baekhyun in his arms. baekhyun stiffens for a heartbeat, and then kris can feel the tears staining his shirt. “i’m so, so sorry.”

“you really do deserve --”

“sshh,” kris says. “let’s not talk about that.”

they stay in that position, letting the hours rush past them. their murmurs fill the crevices of the room, and it’s as if the words don’t come fast enough -- they talk and share and talk some more, and it’s impossible to tell the entire story of a person when midnight’s chasing them, but kris thinks they’re doing a good job.

when all the words have been wrung out, and when all their lives have been mapped into each other’s memories, kris holds baekhyun close. in the darkness they are one entity, and when the moon waxes bright, baekhyun whispers in kris’ ear: “good night, kris. see you tomorrow.”

“good night, baekhyun,” kris says once he’s sure baekhyun is asleep. “i hope you’ll remember me.”

the clock chimes twelve times. he closes his eyes and lets the darkness take him away.

 

 

 

 

it’s too bright. the light hammers against his eyelids, and when he looks around, kris is confused. then he catches sight of the calendar and the red that’s bleeding all over it, and he realizes that it’s the 30th day.

his arms are empty. baekhyun’s not beside him, and kris can feel the panic that’s making its way into his brittle-bruised veins. “baekhyun?” he calls out, clutching the edges of the nearby coffee table to help him stand up. “baekhyun?”

the kitchen is empty. the bathroom’s filled with toiletries and white tiles but there’s no human being inside. kris’ breaths come faster and faster, and soon he’s racing from one end of the apartment to the other, steadily drowning in his fears. “baekhyun!” he shouts when he reaches the balcony.

the only response is traffic noise. kris slides down to the floor, tired and aching and dejected, and it’s as though his skeleton doesn’t want to hold him up anymore. he has fleeting glimpses of brown eyes and black hair, and he can hear baekhyun’s voice everywhere, and kris just wants it to stop. he wants everything to dissolve into bits and pieces of nothing.

it’s several hours later when he picks himself up from his despair and dimly remembers that he hasn’t ingested anything since yesterday’s cup of coffee. kris makes his way to the kitchen, steps slow and tortured. he knows he should feel happy -- proud, even, that he’s gotten a chance to live again. but then he thinks of the mole on baekhyun’s ear, of how he has a pretty smile, of the way baekhyun only ever comes up to somewhere slightly above kris’ chest. he thinks of that and it’s like he can’t even bring himself to eat despite the hunger that’s gnawing his insides.

he almost misses the folded-up piece of paper that’s waiting for him on the island countertop. kris blinks. he remembers baekhyun sitting there what feels like half a lifetime ago, his legs swinging to and fro. he walks over and holds the paper in his hand, and the longer it stays there, the more he feels that it shouldn’t be opened. but kris has been damaged beyond repair and there’s no sense in delaying things now, and so he unfolds the paper.

 

> _dear kris,_
> 
> _don't forget to turn off the fan when you wake up. you always do, and i've always been the one to turn it off and unplug it. but when you wake up i won't be there in your arms, all curled up and warm and safe. i won't be listening to how many heartbeats you have in a minute, and i won't know how many more you'll have for the rest of your life, and somehow that bothers me. if you have 72 beats per minute and there are 60 minutes in an hour, and there are 24 hours in a day -- ah, but i can't tell how long you'll linger on earth, either. i'm torn between you living forever and ever or at least until you reach a hundred, and you living for a second so you can join me wherever i'll be headed._
> 
> _i can imagine you right now, leaning against the countertop as you read this letter. or maybe you’re facing it, your hand creasing the paper because you’re clutching it too hard, your other hand fisted and resting on the countertop. remember that day you wanted to cook pancakes? you told me the reason why, and at that time i didn’t know how to help you. i didn’t know how to respond. we ended up with burnt pancakes that day, and you never really got to taste a real homemade pancake. i wish i knew how to cook, too -- i wish i knew how to erase the pain that’s forever a part of you. i wish i’d been there when you were lonely and neglected. i wish i’d been able to meet tao. he sounds like he’d be a good friend to have, and i’m glad that he’s there for you. listen to him more, okay? and don’t just listen. talk to him, too. tell him all the things that are bothering you. tell him what you feel so that your emotions don’t build up inside you, growing and growing until you can’t hold them in any longer._
> 
> _i’m only a couple of paragraphs in and i miss you already. i miss your poker face and the way your smile spreads slowly, almost like it’s a gift i have to unwrap. i miss how you take my jokes too seriously and argue with me, and how you turn your head away when you find out that i was just trying to be funny. i miss how it’s so hard for you to trust anyone and yet you trusted me, and every day i see you struggle to unlock your secrets. i miss your honesty, kris. it’s rare, but it’s there. i can’t say the same for me._
> 
> _i miss the way you make me feel that i matter._
> 
> _i know you’re angry. in your mind, you’re probably calling me an idiot. you’re probably shouting, “byun baekhyun, why did you do this?”_
> 
> _byun baekhyun doesn’t know. he doesn’t have an answer; he probably never will._
> 
> _don’t think too much, kris. don’t blame yourself for everything that has happened, because it really, truly isn’t your fault. i don’t want you to spend the rest of your life consumed by guilt, thinking that you were the reason for my death. that’s not true, and it never will be._
> 
> _i’ve always been meant to die. well, all humans are meant to die. but in my case, living again wouldn’t make much of a difference. my expiration date was set long before you came, and i want you to understand that it’s beyond our control. nothing could have changed it. nothing could have stopped it, and if you are still beating yourself up over why you’re there and i’m not, don’t. don’t because it’s not worth it, and i want you to live without feeling like you’re responsible for my fate._
> 
> _do you recall that night at the balcony? that night you found me crying, and even though i didn’t want you to see that side of me, you still stayed. you stayed until i’d calmed down, and your arms felt like they were my safe harbor, and there was nowhere else i’d rather be. you didn’t ask questions, and i’m grateful for that. you were still there when morning came._
> 
> _that was the day i was diagnosed with a brain tumor. i was given three months to live, five if i got lucky._
> 
> _i know we were supposed to separate ourselves from our past lives. that we weren’t supposed to come near. but i was a moth drawn to a flame, kris -- i couldn’t help myself. those days i went missing were the days i spent watching over my past self, reliving everything that had happened in the month of june. i witnessed my first collapse, then the fainting spells i had that grew more and more frequent. i was there when my past self grew paranoid, asking for a break from the orchestra because the fainting was getting worse._
> 
> _i was observing my past self from a distance when he walked into the doctor’s office. i was still there when he came out numb, his face drained of hope. i watched him get into his car. he stayed there for hours, staring at nothing in particular. it was evening when he drove away._
> 
> _and i stumbled back home, unable to see clearly through my tears, and i actually thought of ending my life right then and there. i’m glad you arrived the moment that you did, because i would have jumped off by then._
> 
> _but my illness isn’t the only reason why i wanted you to live, kris. no, it’s not just that. i wanted you to live because there is so, so much more that you could do. i wanted you to live because you’ve left so many things undone. i wanted you to live because i could see in your eyes the things you’d never experienced, the ambitions you had to set aside, and i wanted you to have the chance to pursue them._
> 
> _i wanted you to live because you matter, too, kris. you matter to the world, even if it doesn’t know it yet. you matter to your family, your friends, the people who surround you._
> 
> _you matter to me._
> 
> _so don’t forget to turn off the electric fan. always order take-out because you’ll poison yourself with your own cooking. smile, okay? don’t frown all the time! i know i won’t be there to make you laugh, but there will be other people who will care for you as much as i do, if not more. wear a jacket when it’s cold and please, please play basketball. do what you want to do, and never regret anything you’ve done._
> 
> _let yourself be happy, kris._
> 
> _i think i (sort of, kind of, maybe) love you._
> 
> _baekhyun_
> 
> __

kris puts the paper down. against the black marble it strikes out at him, a slip of white that’s managed to rip him apart. he doesn’t cry.

instead, he lets his lips curve up into a smile.

 

 

 

 

the first thing he’s conscious of is the incessant beeping. it pervades his eardrums, and kris opens his eyes, trying to pinpoint the source of the annoyance. he’s met by an abundance of white stretching out before him.

there is a gasp that seems to suck the air out of the room, and all at once there is a flurry of activity that causes kris to wince. there is an oxygen mask over his nose and an iv needle in his hand, and kris is confused because he remembers falling asleep in the apartment’s kitchen. he remembers waking up with baekhyun gone, and he remembers reading baekhyun’s letter. his heart jogs then races on, and soon nurses and doctors are hovering over him.

“kris-ge!”

kris’ eyes widen. he attempts to sit up but he is pushed down, and soon a familiar face appears beside the bed.

“you’re awake,” tao says, his eyes filling up with tears. and kris doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know what’s going on, and he can’t comprehend why his friends and his family are all gathered here. “you’ve been in a coma for so long,” tao continues.

kris’ eyebrows knit themselves together. he’d spent 30 days with baekhyun, hadn’t he? he’d died. why was he here in the hospital?

“what happened?” his voice creaks out of his lips and kris winces at the sound. “i got into an accident, didn’t i? where’s the other driver? did he file a lawsuit?” kris thinks of baekhyun and his brain tumor, and it’s so difficult to stay still.

tao shares a look with kris’ father. there is something loaded in that mutual gaze, and kris wait for tao to tell him.

“you’re the one who should file the lawsuit, kris,” tao says.

“but i was the one who fell asleep at the wheel,” kris says, confused. “i was the one who crashed into him. shouldn’t he be the one asking for compensation?”

tao sighs. “you were in the lane, kris,” he says with a long-suffering tone. “you were slowing down. when video footage of the accident was checked, we saw that the other guy had switched lanes to yours.”

“but why would he do that?”

“suicide,” kris’ father says. kris turns to look at the face that’s been carved by age, one he’s seen for a long time. “the investigators found a note in the glove compartment, a suicide letter. apparently the other driver was diagnosed with a brain tumor and he was given only a short time to live, and so he decided to kill himself before that.”

kris doesn’t want to ask. he doesn’t want to, but it’s something he has to do. something he has to confirm. “what’s his name?”

he and his father gaze at each other, and there are layers of secrets about to come down.

“byun baekhyun,” his father says. “his name's byun baekhyun.”

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

  
  


_one year later_

 

 

 

 

it's a day filled with clouds when kris gets this urge to visit a music shop downtown. tao drags him there then leaves him for a bazaar just across the street. kris isn’t sure why he’s here but he pushes open the doors, and he’s met with shelves of albums and vintage records.

the place feels like a forgotten memory drifting in developer chemicals and stop baths, and kris wonders why everything seems so familiar. he stops in front of a platform where a piano stands and he lingers there, and he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for.

behind him, he senses a presence, and kris turns around to see a sales clerk wearing a cap that covers half of his face. the sales clerk walks up to the piano bench and sits, and kris watches as he positions his hands over the keys.

the music shop swells up in song, a melody that speaks of heartbreak and loss and shards of hope that are taped back together. kris is left to float in the open sea where he is tossed by the waves and travels from shore to shore, and he wants to dissolve into the pretty crescendos that appear every now and then. somehow this song is familiar, too -- it’s a picture tucked into the pages of a notebook, rediscovered again after so many years of being lost.

when it trickles down to a mournful note, kris applauds. the sales clerk stands up, swivels around and bows. but kris catches him by the hand, and he doesn’t know why there’s a sense of urgency that’s crawling up from rib to rib.

“excuse me,” he says, just a tad bit anxious, “what’s the name of this song?”

the sales clerk retrieves the music sheets propped up on the stand and offers them to kris. he lingers by the taller man’s side, arms crossed over his chest.

kris flips the paper. there, on top of the front page, are the words _second chances_.

he’s shaking. there’s a change in the conditions and he’s not at equilibrium, and fear digs into a corner of his mind. with trembling hands, he lifts the cap off of the sales clerk’s head.

he sees black hair and a smile that’s always been on the threshold of lovely. but what hits him hard are the sweet brown eyes twinkling up at him with something like disguised joy. kris’ heart leaps once, twice. then it thuds against his chest, _thud thud thud_ , and he’s coming alive in a place where people are distilled into the desires of their hearts.

“i’m sorry,” baekhyun says, and his voice still sounds the same. “i’m sorry.”

and kris doesn’t care. he buries his face in the junction between baekhyun’s neck and shoulder, and he lets himself cry.

 

 

 

 

outside, the wind whistles its secrets to anyone who will listen. it jumps with joy and lifts skirts and t-shirts. the skies smile, glowing a happy shade of yellow before turning orange. the day is about to end but the streets downtown are just waking up, and inside one of those shops are two souls who have lost and found each other, over and over and over again.

tacked to one of the walls is a calendar. encircled in a blue that’s reminiscent of a calm lake is a date:

 _august 8, 2014_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
a/n:  
i owe a lot to my beloved beta [](http://caressingflames.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://caressingflames.livejournal.com/)**caressingflames** , who held my hand all throughout this fic and kept me going with her hilarious comments.  



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